


Each Second of Fear

by the_moonmoth



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Future Fic, Implied Character Death, M/M, Season Four Alternate Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2005-05-01
Updated: 2005-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan always thought there would be time, one day, to sort out his messy relationship with Malcolm. Time just ran out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayjayuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayjayuu/gifts).



> This whole thing has been beta'd by the incomparable Mareel, who's been holding my hand over this thing since February. Every single time I've had a problem, she's thwacked me over the head with her magic wand and suddenly it all worked again. I owe you a lot, sweetie. My thanks also to Alia, for taking the time to give me some much needed feedback along the way, and to Kay herself, for my playlist ;)
> 
> KayJay asked for Archer/Reed, a happy(ish) ending and angst along the way. All I can say is -- be careful what you wish for! That, and I'm really, really sorry I haven't reached the requested ending yet *wailing and gnashing of teeth*
> 
> I tried to stick as well as possible to canon up to Divergence, which is where we'd got to at the time I plotted this out. So the end of season 4 in this story is AU to the series. The 'current' time frame here is roughly ten years after the end of S4. I got my dates from http://members.cox.net/stenterprise/enttmln.htm It seems to be quite accurate, but if you spot any mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> Excerpts are from the poem 'Absolute Guilt' by Diana Pacuraru. The full poem may be read here: http://www.agonia.net/index.php/poetry/103690/
> 
>  
> 
> [This story was originally written for the 2005 round of the entficathon challenge on livejournal. Due to my degree getting in the way, I couldn't finish it for the deadline, and then unfortunately it fell by the wayside. I have so much love for and personal investment in this story that it may one day be finished, but that day seems unlikely to be in the near future. _\-- 3/1/10_ ]

**1**

I wish I could tear the sky apart,  
Because it reminds me of his eyes.  
And then I wouldn't touch the sand,  
Reminding me of his hot silky skin.  
The night... why does it always come  
To remind me of his hair?

***

Fleet Admiral Archer is sitting at his desk when he hears the news. He nods and thanks the young ensign with the red piping, wishing that it could have been a familiar face. Hoshi is just across the concourse at the new academy, he knows, and he wonders if she was told in the same awkward, anonymous manner. He thinks he should go check on her, see that she's okay, but when it comes to moving his body, nothing happens.

So he sits at his desk, the one he always swore he'd die before accepting, because dying out among the stars he has always loved is the proper way of things. But it seems fate has run out of romance for Jonathan Archer. Old Zephram did it right, he thinks. Captain Reed has done it right.

He sits at his desk and he can't move for the weight of memory, and he fights the denial he can feel creeping up on him, insidious. The voice inside that whispers, he isn't gone -- how can he be when you can recall each line around his eyes, each mole on the smooth planes of his back, each tone in his laugh so perfectly?

He remembers; their actions in the face of a seemingly limitless future so frivolous from this strange new perspective. So distant and untouchable, the consequences so profound. He has always thought, there'll be time, one day.

Jonathan's bluff has been called. Time's up.

***

After the waiting, the dreadful anticipation, the horror of what he finally saw on the view screen was beyond anything he had had the capacity to imagine. A deep gouge ran across the planet -- Earth, home -- like pressing your thumb into a ripe peach, like squashing ants underfoot in the summer.

His first thought, though, was not for the tremendous loss of life, nor the personal tragedies of his crew, of Trip by his side whose sister was still missing. Captain Archer's first soul-wrenching reaction was the absolute certainty that it was all over, the life he had known up to that point -- the joy of exploration, the naive muddling-through, the feeling he had been fostering deep in his belly when Malcolm kissed him.

Everything he had known was swept away before his eyes, and he let it go with mixed feelings of futility and a rapidly solidifying rage.

He didn't meet Malcolm's eyes, though he could feel them burning into him from across the bridge.

He regrets that, now -- he should have looked up. Malcolm deserved to understand, and Jon isn't sure that he ever really did. But there was time for all that after the coming madness. The future still existed then.

***

Admiral Archer is still at his desk, hours or years later, when Commander Sato knocks on the door and lets herself in. He's often wondered why she bothers knocking, because she never waits for a response, not since she was a lieutenant on Enterprise. But then, he's never called her on it. He likes the familiarity.

He doesn't look up; he can't move. The thick air will shatter if he moves, shower him with the keen shards of everything that's been lost today. So he doesn't look up at her, but he knows how pale she looks, how fragile and lost. He can feel it; he can remember the way she looked at Trip's funeral, as though by breathing too deeply she would break.

'Admiral?' she says, voice low and hoarse against unshed tears. The room aches with the silence. He can see her, in his mind's eye, standing before the desk he never wanted, waiting for him. To do what?

'Jonathan?' She whispers, and he can hear that she's crying now.

It surprises him, as she slides shaking into his arms, that he didn't need to think about standing up and walking around the desk, didn't have to concentrate on each fine motor function of his limbs. Breathing continues to happen by itself, his heart pumps blood through his veins.

But still the voice tells him (and it's beginning to sound oddly like Malcolm) that this is all a ridiculous charade. How can it be true, when he can still feel the heat of the body he wrapped himself around those too few nights, still catch the scent of his hair, tickling his face as he gently fell asleep?

***

Malcolm kept his eyes open as he fucked Jon in Jon's bed, silent except for his harsh breathing and the sound of their bodies moving against each other. Jon couldn't see him clearly in the dim starlight filtering in, just the outline of his body slick with sweat, and his eyes shining brightly, reflecting the stars.

'Kiss me,' he said, and then gasped as Malcolm tightened his hold on Jon's cock, arching into the pleasure. 'Oh God... please, Malcolm.'

Eyes never leaving Jon's, Malcolm leaned down until their faces were just inches apart and Jon could feel his hot breath as he panted in time with their movements. A hand slid up his body to cup his cheek, and Jon turned his face into the unexpectedly tender gesture, kissing the thumb. As he looked back up into Malcolm's eyes, a sensation both familiar and new flickered through his stomach -- surprise, anticipation, something else.

'Jon,' Malcolm whispered, closing the last little bit of distance between them, trembling into the kiss as he came. Wrapping his arms tightly around his lover, Jon buried his face in his neck, thrusting his cock into Malcolm's stomach as the pressure built, then moaned as it released, breath hitching, throat oddly tight.

The day was unremarkable, except for that.

Bodies softening, cooling, they continued to kiss until Malcolm eventually fell asleep some time later. Held close in his arms, Jon watched him and wondered.

He has continued to wonder, these twelve years, haunted by the look in Malcolm's eyes.

***

'He died protecting others,' Hoshi says. 'That's the way he would've wanted it.'

'The explosion must have been something else,' Jon agrees, and laughs, but it's a thin, humorless sound. Hoshi smiles slightly, sipping her coffee, and Jon turns to stare sightlessly out of her kitchen window, the sun beginning to sink beneath the San Francisco cityscape.

He tries to picture the scene: a smoke-filled bridge, claxons blaring as the ship shakes itself to pieces, Captain Reed at the centre of it all, implacable, waiting for the crew to finish evacuating before...

He probably argued with Travis. Mayweather would've wanted to stay in his captain's place, or at least help him, make sure everything went to plan. He can almost hear him (What if something happens to you, Sir? What if you're injured or overcome, or-) and Reed's calm response (You have your orders, Commander). Mayweather would have protested, of course, but Reed's a stubborn bastard... Reed _was_ a stubborn bastard.

...before blowing himself and his ship to hell.

Goddamn it, Malcolm.

The door is chiming and Hoshi rises to answer it. There are voices, a muffled conversation, and Aki runs into the kitchen

'Uncle Jon?' He stops short. 'Why are _you_ here?'

'Not to see rude little boys like you, that's for sure,' Hoshi says, following him in. 'Don't even think about it, buster. Hang your coat up first.' Aki reluctantly steps away from the fridge and stomps out of the room. Hoshi reseats herself at the small, square table across from Jon. She looks terrible, he thinks, her big brown eyes rimmed with red, standing out garishly in her pale face. He wonders whether it's a good thing that her son is probably too young to notice such things.

Aki returns and pours himself a glass of orange juice. Without preamble, he places it on the table and climbs into Jon's lap (with a little help, because he's an enthusiastic kid and his bony knees dig painfully into Jon's bad thigh). He settles himself comfortably and sits facing Hoshi, small hands crossed neatly on the table.

'Did you have a good day at work today, mommy?'

Jon wants to laugh at the serious little grown-up sitting on him like a piece of furniture, but it doesn't come out right. Hoshi looks up, concerned, and he tries to smile -- everything's okay -- but it twists and it hurts and the not-right laugh slips out again, because Hoshi's son makes him think of things he once wanted.

'Aki, go upstairs and play,' his mom orders.

'Why?'

Jon turns away from the confused little face peering up at him, hides his face with a hand.

'Now please, Aki.'

The boy slides from his lap as his body begins to shake spasmodically. Unable to catch his breath, he continues to hide his face as Hoshi crouches by his side, resting a small hand on his arm. Then she, too, leaves.

Admiral Archer is calmly sitting at the table when she returns a few minutes later, her own eyes puffy and raw again. She makes fresh coffee and sits down beside him. She rests her hand on his, curling her fingers around his own, and they stay like that until the sun has set and it's dark outside.

***

'It's hot toddy, Captain. Whisky, honey and lemon. My grandmother's recipe. I thought you might-' Archer sneezed explosively, '-appreciate it.'

Jon thought he had probably wanted it for several months, but it was Malcolm who made the first move in the end, the day after he'd broken Archer out of Rura Penthe. He came to his quarters in the evening, holding the little thermal flask.

Jon smiled warmly and beckoned Malcolm in. 'Can't drink on my own, now, can I?'

That night they sat about with the whisky and talked and laughed for several hours, Jon telling him all about his tenure in the icy prison. When Malcolm finally got up to leave, cheeks flushed from the drink and the laughter, Jon stood too, moving to open the door for his officer. Somehow he was too close, Malcolm hadn't moved out of the way, personal spaces all tangled up, and then no space at all as Malcolm leaned in and pressed his lips gently to Jon's.

He felt his breath catch, heart thudding impossibly hard, but then it was over and Malcolm was saying, 'Goodnight, Jon,' grinning a little hesitantly, turning to go.

'Wait.' He reached out a hand to the other man's forearm. Their eyes locked for a moment and a sharp rush of arousal spiked through Jon's body at the unrestrained hunger he saw staring back at him. And then he was held between the bulkhead and a man he had only tentatively called friend until recently, moaning into his mouth as their tongues came into contact for the first time.

He knew they were probably moving too fast. He knew he should be more concerned about what had brought on this change in his rule-abiding, reticent lieutenant. He knew there were a hundred things they needed to talk about before jumping into this. He also knew, as he worked a hand under Malcolm's uniform to the smooth, hot skin beneath, as Malcolm gripped his ass bringing their erections together, that he couldn't stop, not now.

Jon has often looked back on those first two months as the most contented, most uncomplicated of his life. Unfortunately, he's never been able to separate them in his mind from the months that followed.

***

'Mommy said you lost your friend.' Jon looks into the grave young face for a moment, then nods. 'Can't you find him again?'

Jon clears his throat, testing whether or not he trusts himself to speak. 'No,' he says softly. 'He died, Aki.'

The sound of the boy's thoughtful scribbling fills the room as colorful, indistinct shapes fill the page. 'Mommy said I knew him.'

'You met him once, but it was a couple years ago. He was the one who gave you your model Warhawk.'

Aki looks up, nodding sagely. 'The one with the funny beard.' Putting down his pencil he makes an 'O' with his forefinger and thumb and puts it around his mouth, jutting his chin out to demonstrate. Jon smiles fondly, aching, remembering the first time he'd seen Malcolm with the goatee.

'That's right.'

'He said he had a real Warhawk and he'd show it me when I'm bigger.'

'I'm sure he would have done.' They had been due back to Earth for dry-dock refits in less than six months.

'Is the ship gone too?'

'It exploded.' Aki looks truly sorry for that.

'How come?'

'There was an accident. We don't know exactly what happened.'

'Was it the... the Romanans?'

'Romulans,' Jon corrects, with some measure of distaste. He fought in the war, after all. That's how he got his desk. 'No, Aki. It was just a... meaningless accident.' He tries not to struggle over the words.

Hoshi sticks her head around the door to the playroom where they're sitting cross-legged on the carpet. 'Jon?'

Out in the hall, she pushes the door to and leads him into the study. 'I managed to get hold of Dan, at last. He's coming home the day after tomorrow.'

'Good.'

'Also, Commander Grosbenoit called? Head office received a gold-level communiqué from Andoria, addressed to you. He's forwarded it to your personal inbox.'

'Thanks, Hoshi.' Jon gestures to the unit on the desk. 'May I?'

'Of course. I'll be in the playroom if you need me.'

***

Captain Archer stared in horror as the hose Reed had just pulled out of his EVA suit hemorrhaged oxygen, the gas freezing instantly into tiny, gleaming crystals, tumbling away into the night.

'What the hell are you doing?' He yelled, voice laced with the panic that was making his pulse pound in his ears, and he let go of Reed's custom-made scanner without a second thought as he moved in painful slow motion around the Romulan mine to where Malcolm had been pinned to the hull.

Maybe that's where it all begins, out there on the hull, with one man risking his ship and crew for the life of another, because he simply can't fathom his death.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Guilt shines again in his eyes,  
Like two lost diamonds

***

 _October 20th, 2165._

'Archer, Jonathan, Admiral.'

The screen flashes, 'Voice recognition successful. Please enter security clearance and codes.'

'Security clearance alpha-five. Archer-sigma-omega-nine-five.'

Immediately, the logo of the new Federation is replaced with the tranquil features of Ambassador T'Pol.

'Admiral Archer,' she greets. 'I assume by this time that you have heard news of the fate of the Brimstone and her captain. I wish to offer you my most sincere regrets.' Jon wonders if regret isn't illogical. He wonders if she grieves for Reed.

'I have been in contact with Commander Mayweather on the Tellarite transport Charn, and he informs me that he and the remainder of the crew will reach the outpost at Turana in four days. I thought you would appreciate knowing.' Because Starfleet has always been slow to disseminate information, she doesn't say.

T'Pol has paused, leaning forward slightly and lowering her voice. 'Admiral, by the time this message reaches you, I will be on a ship headed for Earth. When I arrive, there is something we must discuss.' She raises an eyebrow, inclining her head, 'I hope you are well,' and then the message is over.

Taken aback by the abruptness of her sign-out, Jon sits back in the chair and stares at the ambassador's face, the message paused back at the beginning. She hasn't changed in ten years, he thinks, her youthful beauty a mockery to his own graying hair and deepening wrinkles, a dazzling reminder of everything that went before, as though by acting differently he could have kept it so.

***

'Was it T'Pol?'

Jon comes back to the present with a start. 'What?'

'The communiqué?' Hoshi repeats, 'Was it from T'Pol?'

He stares blankly at her for a moment. 'Oh... yes. She sends her regrets.'

'She knows already?'

'The ambassador moves in mysterious ways,' he says, a ghost of humor in his voice. 'She probably knew before we did. She said she's coming to Earth -- do you know anything about that?'

'No.' Hoshi shakes her head, looking a little confused. 'She wrote me a couple weeks ago, but she didn't mention leaving Andoria any time soon. It sounded like she had a lot on her plate. Maybe she's coming... for a memorial?'

'But no one's planned one yet,' Archer sighs, rubbing his face tiredly.

'Mysterious ways, Admiral,' Hoshi reminds him. 'Are you hungry?'

'Not really.'

'Coffee?'

'Thanks, but I should start heading back to my place. It's getting late.'

For a moment it looks as though she's going to protest, but in the end she just smiles a little weakly. 'Okay. You know you can call me, any time...'

He gets up from the console and envelopes her in a hug. 'Thank you, Hoshi.' She doesn't reply but he feels her nodding into his chest, breathing very carefully.

'Look after yourself, Jon,' she says eventually.

He smiles fondly, hating that he's so glad to be leaving. 'You too.'

***

It's a clear night, the moon bright in the sky, the stars visible through the light from the streetlamps. He hates it.

He hates that he hasn't seen the stars from the other side of the clouds for so long. He hates that the light from the city diminishes them. He hates that being out there caused Trip's slow death, and Malcolm's, alone, so far from reach. He hates that he wasn't there to do something. Anything.

He hates these feelings of regret that keep surfacing because damn it, he made the right decision, and the possibility that he was wrong doesn't bear thinking about. He hates the nagging voice that tells him, as it has done for some years now, that all the time in the world wouldn't have mattered, because Malcolm would never have forgiven him. He hates how the gap between letters got longer and longer, and the way he convinced himself it was because he was busy, and that they hadn't even arranged to meet up when the Brimstone was due back to Earth in a few months because he hadn't gotten around to it yet.

He hates the thought that Malcolm might have gone to his death with the belief that Jon no longer cared, and maybe never had done. That's the thing he hates most, and he only has himself to blame.

More immediately, though, he hates the way his thigh is twingeing from just this light exercise, how his body is failing him before its time. Walking home from Dan and Hoshi's is farther than he's supposed to go. Ignoring the taxi that hums quietly by, he leans more heavily on his cane and continues. And as he walks, he hates.

***

Back at his apartment, Jon lets the door shut before leaning his weight against the wall, leg throbbing. He takes a moment to compose himself, and allow the pain to dissipate a little before limping through to the kitchen, where he fixes himself a drink. He takes his time over it, moving slowly because of his leg, and so it's a while before he sees the red light blinking on his console in the next room.

Sitting down, he opens the message more out of habit than any wish to see another sympathetic face with its empty condolences. He's so shocked by what actually comes up on the screen that he nearly drops his glass.

'Hello, Jon,' says Captain Reed.

***

Archer remembers lying naked in his bed with Reed stretched out beside him, no particular night of their short relationship. He remembers the drowsy, sated feeling from their previous lovemaking, and the dreamy smile in Malcolm's eyes, watching Jon as he ran a hand down Malcolm's spine.

He remembers the way his heart seemed to swell with tenderness, thinking that he had never seen his lieutenant so relaxed and unguarded, and that maybe the pleasure of the physical passion was surpassed by peaceful moments such as these. And then, thinking how much easier his life had become, knowing this was here at the end of the day, and the way his stomach had jumped at the illicit, un-talked-about hope of continuance.

'Do you want me to leave?' Malcolm had asked later, as Jon was drifting off to sleep. Jon had reached out, pulling him in closer, their lips meeting for a slow, tender kiss.

'I'd prefer you to stay.' He had paused. 'I'm so glad we did this, Malcolm.'

Jon remembers his lover's smile, lighting his entire face. 'Me too.'

He doesn't know at which point the sex became lovemaking in his memory. He does know that that conversation never happened

***

'Hello, Jon,' says Captain Reed, smiling a little sadly. 'This message has been programmed to be sent directly to your personal unit on the confirmation, in my personnel file, of my death.'

Archer takes a deep breath to dispel the absurd rush of hope that had swept over him on opening the message.

'If you're seeing this, I guess it means we never got the chance to talk. I'm truly sorry for that. But I've always believed that it is essential to say what must be said, before the opportunity is removed. Things have calmed down a lot recently, and patrolling the Neutral Zone is nowhere near as dangerous as it used to be, but... there are never any guarantees.' Malcolm pauses, glancing briefly out a window just in shot.

'As you can see, I'm on Earth. I was recently promoted to captain and am now awaiting transport to Alpha Centauri to meet up with my new ship and crew. You may remember that during my wait we had the opportunity to see something of each other.' Jon remembers that it was mostly at small gatherings, at which any kind of private conversation was impossible, but they had managed to have lunch together once.

'Seeing you again, after all this time, a lot of things came clear for me. I've missed you, Jon. I don't think I realized how much I did until I talked to you again. It's been a while.' He shakes his head. 'I was angry with you, for a long time after we stopped seeing each other. I tried not to let it affect our working relationship, and during that year of madness with the Xindi it was easy to distract myself, but I guess ultimately I failed. I'm sorry if I ever made things harder on you than they needed to be -- lucky that that promotion came along when it did, I suppose.

'From the beginning, I suspected that I never had the whole of you, but as long as I had you at all and you were happy, I always thought there would be plenty of time to let things develop. I never once thought you would leave me so suddenly, with so little explanation, when I believed you needed me most. It was difficult to accept, after risking so much, and I want you to know that I still think you made the biggest bloody mistake of your life,' he grins, and again there's something terribly sad about it, 'but I also want you to know that I do understand why you felt you had to do what you did. I stopped being angry a long time ago.

'I don't know why we still haven't sorted through this mess. Never the right time, I suppose. And the longer I left it, the harder it got. Then, what with the Romulans and everything that came after, it feels as though we barely stopped for breath during those years.

'But since then, now that things are calmer... I've been a coward. I have considered trying to talk to you about this, to try to discern how you feel. The truth is, it's been too long. I know you don't feel the way I do, I've known for a long time now, but I'm still afraid to hear you say it.

'I wish that so many things were different, that I could have told you this myself: I love you, Jonathan, I always have.'

***

Admiral Archer doesn't sleep. Instead he lies in bed feeling as though his body is ripping apart; as though he'll stop breathing from the ache in his throat; as though his chest will implode.

He thinks of all the times he could have said something, could have put things right between them. Looking back, there were so many opportunities, and he's hit with the burning realization of how different things could have been, if not for the decisions he made.

What a waste, Jon thinks. What a goddamned useless waste of a young, vibrant life. Younger still, he suddenly realizes, than he was when first in command of Enterprise. He thinks of everything he's been through since those early days. But beyond everything that Malcolm will never experience, Jon grieves for all the things *he* never will. His impotence in the vast face of the Universe is overwhelming; he can't yet comprehend the depth of his anger.

Out of the night the specters arise, and whisper the words that were never spoken into ears that ache from the burden, and the tang of his hot, bitter tears permeates Jon's body to the core. The pain is unbearable; with each beat of his heart the despair and the guilt stab at him in little, extinguishing gasps.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

If there is no love, then it is fear

***

 _October 21st, 2165._

Jon awakes from a light sleep wondering if he actually slept at all. It's dark outside; the chronometer reads 0430. He briefly considers trying to go back to sleep, but an image printed onto the back of his eyes from his dreams comes to the fore, and he quickly reaches over and turns on the light.

He gets up, showers and dresses in his dark blue admiral's uniform, though he leaves the jacket on the back of the desk chair for now. He makes a coffee, sits at the desk and checks his console for new messages. There's nothing since he went to bed -- it wasn't that long ago.

Opening a file, he begins reviewing the fleet deployment he had just been handed yesterday when he was informed of the Brimstone's destruction. Maybe it's the lack of sleep or that it's still dark outside, but he's finding it hard to concentrate.

It had seemed to him that his entire short-lived relationship with Reed could be characterized by thoughts and feelings that were never allowed to crystallize fully into realization. Now, in light of Malcolm's letter, he looks back and realizes that he should have known all along.

***

 _March, 2153._

Captain Archer let himself into Reed's quarters to find Reed sitting at the desk, intent on whatever it was he was doing. Walking over to stand behind him, Jon leaned down and kissed the tip of his ear, scanning the text on the screen of the padd.

'You're back late, love,' Malcolm murmured, distracted.

Jon hesitated for a second as his pulse skipped at the unconscious endearment. 'I know, sorry. Phlox cornered me about those Altairan glow moths as I was leaving the bridge.' There was no response and Jon grinned wryly to himself. 'I hope I'm not interrupting anything.'

'What? Oh, no, just writing a letter to my parents.'

'Huh.' Jon laid a hand on Malcolm's shoulder, absently stroking the back of his neck with his thumb. 'Say anything about me?

'Your name may have been mentioned,' Malcolm hedged. 'Why?'

'Oh, just wondering what your dad would think about us.'

'I'm sure my father would disapprove wholeheartedly,' Malcolm said. Saving the letter and putting the padd to sleep mode, he grinned wolfishly up at Jon. 'Console me.'

'Malcolm,' he warned, 'we'll be late.' But he couldn't help grinning back, couldn't help his body's response to the way Malcolm was looking at him, and when Malcolm stood up and kissed him, he forgot for a moment about dinner and Trip and T'Pol waiting for them. Instead he gave himself up to the sensation of Malcolm's body seemingly melting into his, and the warmth that spread through him at the increasing tenderness in the kiss. He thought about Malcolm's earlier unconscious endearment and wondered what it meant. But his brain sort of skittered over that, filing it away as something to think about later.

Breaking off the kiss he gently pushed Malcolm away. 'Come on, we don't want to keep them waiting.'

Something flashed in Malcolm's eyes, but it was quick and Jon barely caught it as he turned to open the door.

***

'So, do you approve of the menu, Lieutenant?' Archer asked as the main course was brought in.

'I'm sure it'll be fine, Sir.' Malcolm smiled at him a little tightly. Genuinely uncomfortable or simply keeping up appearances, Jon didn't know.

'Aw come on, Malcolm!' Trip cried, incredulous. 'Real steak? I bet you haven't had that in months.'

'The charred flesh of what was once a living creature isn't something to get excited about, Commander,' T'Pol interjected, raising an eyebrow when he scowled at her.

Turning back to Malcolm, Trip tried again. 'This is the finest cuisine in Starfleet and that's all you have to say about it? '

'I hadn't given it much thought, Trip,' Malcolm replied. 'Unlike some, my day doesn't revolve around my stomach, and when I can put things in it.'

Trip looked injured. 'Good food is good for the soul,' he protested. 'Anyway, what happened to 'an army marches on its stomach'?'

'Oh I'm more than happy to eat, Commander. I'm just less discriminatory.'

Trip snorted. 'You mean discriminating.'

'In fact,' Malcolm continued, ignoring the interruption, 'When I was in the Starfleet training program I ate the same breakfast, lunch and supper every day.'

'You did what? For three years?'

Malcolm shrugged. 'I like consistency. It's good for the soul.'

Jon sat back, watching his armory officer mercilessly bait his chief engineer, enjoying the light and laughter in his eyes, seeming to illuminate his entire face. Not that Trip noticed, of course, falling hook, line and sinker for Malcolm's tall tale. He felt again that swell of affection in his chest as he watched his lover gradually relax into the setting, laughing at Trip's expression when T'Pol revealed she had done much the same for most of her life.

Trip just shook his head in disbelief, and then sighed happily as he popped a piece of steak in his mouth. 'Cap'n and I obviously have more refined tastes than you two.'

Jon held up his hands. 'Keep me out of this, Trip.' Malcolm grinned over at him and Jon held his gaze. For a long moment they just looked at each other, Jon still smiling, Malcolm's eyes sparkling. Then, catching himself, he realized that Trip had stopped talking.

'I doubt it would interest you then, Lieutenant, that Chef's cooked up a pineapple cobbler for dessert.'

'To answer your earlier question, Sir,' Malcolm replied smoothly, 'I wholeheartedly and unreservedly approve of the menu.'

Jon just smiled again.

***

Later, he lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, listening to Malcolm's steady breathing. Two months, he thought, and he was already used to this, having another warm body beside him every night again. It had been a while. And it *had* been every night, barring emergency and the occasional night shift. For two months. In a way it alarmed Jon just how quickly Malcolm had become a natural part of his life. He was used to having more control over his relationships, but then, he'd never done this in such a small, enclosed environment -- maybe it was inevitable.

And maybe it was completely inappropriate. The thought came to him every now and then. He remembered telling a class of kids last year that it was okay for officers to see one another, and it was in his book. For the most part. Starfleet continued to avoid the issue through vagueness, leaving it to the interpretation of the captain. But who judged for him? They'd been discreet so far -- he was fairly certain no one else knew -- and they'd both acted perfectly professionally while on duty. Still, he sometimes had the unnerving feeling that he'd yet to be really tested.

Sighing, Archer rolled over onto his side and scrutinized his sleeping lover. He was facing away towards the window, shirtless, the covers pushed down to his waist. The stars rushing by outside cast a silvery glow over his pale skin and Jon traced the outline of it down Malcolm's shoulder and bicep. Moving closer, he propped himself up on his elbow and peered down at Malcolm's face, strangely moved by how young he looked in sleep, how at peace. Careful not to jostle him, Jon leaned over and kissed him softly on the temple, closing his eyes as he breathed him in.

The sound of the comm. made him jump and Porthos whine and snuffle in his sleep. Malcolm stirred, breathing in deeply, then rolled onto his back and settled again to a deep sleep. Jon watched him for a second longer, then slid off the bed to answer the call before it disturbed either Malcolm or the beagle again.

'Archer. What is it?' He asked, trying not to sound like he was trying not to wake someone.

'Sorry to awaken you, Captain. There's an incoming message from Starfleet command: it's Admiral Forrest, Sir,' Ensign Chakrabhorti's disembodied voice told him.

'No problem, ensign, I was already awake.' He quickly glanced at the position of his console relative to the bed. 'I'll take it in my ready room.'

'Aye, Sir.'

As quietly as possible, Archer pulled on a fresh uniform, put his hair in order and headed for the bridge.

***

An hour and a half later, Archer ended the transmission and immediately opened a comm. line to his quarters.

'Archer to Reed,' he said, waiting impatiently for a reply. 'Malcolm, wake up.'

'Jon? What's going on? Where are you?'

'In my ready room. Listen, Malcolm, I don't have time to explain right now but I need to call a meeting of the senior staff.'

There was a pause. 'I'd better get back to my quarters, then,' Lieutenant Reed said, sounding fully awake and more than a little concerned.

'See you in a few minutes. Archer out.'

Rubbing his face tiredly, Archer rose and stepped out onto the bridge. 'Ensign,' he called over to Chakrabhorti, 'Wake the senior staff and tell them to meet me in the conference room in fifteen minutes.'

'Aye, Sir.'

'That includes Dr. Phlox.'

'Aye.'

***

Thirty minutes later, Archer said his goodbyes to Admiral Forrest for the fourth time and made his way to meet his senior officers.

Stepping through the door he glanced around, checking that everyone was present, and then fixed his eyes squarely on Trip.

'There's been an attack on Earth.'

Trip stared at him. 'What do you mean, 'an attack'?'

'A probe,' Jon said, quietly. 'They don't know where it came from. It fired a weapon that cut a swath... four thousand kilometers long...' he glanced down, taking a breath before turning his best friend's world upside down, 'from Florida to Venezuela. There may have been a million casualties.'

'A million?' Malcolm repeated weakly.

Jon nodded, meeting his eye briefly, then looked around the room. 'We've been recalled.'

***

A little over four days later, Archer found himself pacing his quarters in a haze of angry energy, too restless to sleep, and too sore. He should remember not to argue with T'Pol before bedtime, he thought sourly.

Phlox had given him a mild analgesic for the strains and bruises he'd received from Silik's little visit, but that had been several hours ago. His shoulders and back ached viciously, head pounding.

Reaching the desk, Jon picked up a padd from the top of a pile and tried to concentrate on what it said but it was just more bad news, more revised estimates of the damage and the loss of life and he tossed it back in frustration. It clipped the pile and they all slid to the deck with a clatter. Archer muttered something vulgar and kicked at one of the offending padds.

Reed chose that moment to let himself in. Stopping short, he looked at Jon in surprise. Jon looked back. 'Are you alright?' Malcolm asked after a few seconds.

Jon continued to stare at Malcolm for a moment, then started to laugh at his own absurdity and the look on Malcolm's face. Then stopped, because it hurt.

'Ow,' he complained softly, putting a hand to the sharp twinge in his back. Malcolm was still staring at him, utterly perplexed. 'Sorry,' he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 'Long day.'

Malcolm shook his head, a wry half-smile on his face, and came to sit down next to Jon. 'You too?' He let out a soft chuckle, reaching up a hand to Jon's neck, gently massaging. Jon sighed and hung his head, trying to relax into the touch, then winced as the movement aggravated his back again. 'Sorry...' Malcolm withdrew his hand.

'No, it wasn't you.' Jon gingerly pulled his tee-shirt off, wincing a little, and revealed the angry red mark where one of the Suliban had kicked him.

'Silik,' Malcolm hissed, his disgust evident. He reached over and traced a finger lightly along the edge of the bruise. 'Did Phlox give you something?'

Jon nodded to the pot of gel on his bedside table. 'Analgesics for the pain and dermogel for the swelling.'

'Need any help?'

'I was hoping you'd say that.'

Malcolm smiled that small smile again and got up, telling Jon to lie down on his stomach. Picking up the pot he seated himself at Jon's side and gently began to rub the gel into the damaged skin. The contact hurt a little, but the gel was cool and soon began to soothe the pain.

His bruises taken care of, Jon heard Malcolm screwing the lid back on the pot and then let out a long, low moan as he began to massage the taut muscles in Jon's shoulders and neck.

'Better?' Malcolm asked after a while.

'Much better, thank you.' Jon smiled slightly, at last beginning to feel relaxed enough to sleep. Malcolm continued for a couple more minutes, then kissed the nape of Jon's neck and headed into the bathroom. While he was gone, Jon kicked off his pants and collapsed under the covers.

When Malcolm returned, Jon pulled him into his arms. 'God, Malcolm,' he sighed, and held onto him tightly.

***

The journey home was hardest on those with little but the bad news to distract them. Jon did his best to keep the crew focused and, more importantly, occupied. But six weeks was turning out to be a long time for people waiting for the worst, and a feeling of dreadful anticipation hung over them all. The only crewmembers with any real sense of purpose were Malcolm's team, who were making a series of alterations to the armory in preparation for a retrofit. Trip and his team were helping out, but there was only so much they could do in the limited space.

At night, Jon often found himself restless, too tired to concentrate anymore but too wired to sleep. With Malcolm working late more often than not, he and Trip fell into an odd pattern, occasionally finding each other prowling the ship and ending up in the captain's mess with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses.

'Any news?' Jon asked after a long silence one evening.

Trip looked up, his blue eyes desolate. 'Nothing.' He drained his glass and reached over to pour another. 'Got a message yesterday from my aunt Diana. My momma's not coping so well and she's gone down to stay for a while.' Jon didn't reply -- he'd stopped trying to find the right words several weeks before. Trip rubbed his sleepless eyes, then let his arm fall back onto the table. 'I'm sick of thinking about it, Cap'n.' Jon watched him fiddle with his glass for a while, lost in his own thoughts. 'So...' Trip said eventually, 'How long you been doing the horizontal dance with Malcolm?'

'What?' Jon raised his eyebrows in surprise, shifting uncomfortably under his friend's scrutiny.

Trip shrugged, the barest hint of humor in his face. 'You know a guy for a decade, you notice these things.'

'Three months, give or take,' Jon said after a moment. 'Do you think... does anyone else know?'

'I doubt it.'

Jon relaxed slightly, then frowned, staring down at the bourbon he'd been unconsciously swilling in the bottom of his glass. 'Trip... is it okay?'

'What do you mean?'

'Sometimes I worry that my having a relationship with one of the crew could cause problems.'

'Malcolm isn't just one of the crew, Cap'n. He's the last person on board to cause you trouble.' Jon glanced over at Trip, not entirely sure that his engineer had understood what he'd meant. 'Look, are you happy?'

Jon stared back down at his drink, hit with the sick, helpless sense of falling. 'Yes,' he replied quietly.

'Well then, there you go.'

***

Jon ducked under the exposed conduits in the access tube where Malcolm was working. 'Report, Lieutenant.'

'Captain,' Reed greeted, 'We've managed to increase efficiency to the phase cannons by another five percent thanks to the specs R and D sent us. This is the last one to be adjusted, should be done by noon tomorrow.'

Jon leaned against the bulkhead and watched Malcolm working on the starboard cannon. After a moment of silence, Reed sat back on his haunches and looked up at Jon. 'Something on your mind, Sir?'

Jon slid down the wall to sit opposite him in the small space, scrubbing a hand down his face.

'Should we be expecting another attack?' he asked.

Malcolm regarded him for a moment. 'It's what I'd do.'

'Oh?' Jon raised his eyebrows.

'Catch the enemy off-guard with an incisive first attack, assess their capabilities, cause chaos and then attack again before they've had a chance to regroup,' he explained. 'If they liked what they saw from the probe, the second attack is likely to be even more forceful.'

'If we're called on to defend Earth, is the crew ready for a combat situation?'

'As it stands we could probably hold our own, but it's my belief that you can never over-prepare for such eventualities. A lot of crewmembers need to work on their marksmanship and hand-to-hand skills should we be boarded, and running regular drills wouldn't hurt.'

'Is two weeks enough time?'

'Probably not.' As Jon had expected. He hung his head and contemplated his knees. 'But I'm sure,' Malcolm continued, shifting into a more comfortable position, sitting opposite Jon, 'that they're willing to do whatever they can in the time remaining.' He knocked Jon's knee gently with his own, making him smile, though a little ruefully.

'Thank you, Malcolm.'

Malcolm nodded and caught hold of Jon's hand. 'If all goes well here I should finish at a decent hour tonight...'

'I'll be waiting for you.' Jon squeezed Malcolm's hand briefly and then let go, rising to his feet. 'I'll see what I can do about arranging those drills.'

***

Admiral Forrest had sent him pictures of the destruction, but standing there on the bridge, seeing it for himself, it was only then that he began to grasp the magnitude of what it meant, of what he was going to have to do.

Malcolm had accused him of being naive in the past and in retrospect he may have been right. Not this time. He'd been to ground zero, seen the wreckage of the probe and the corpse of the anonymous pilot -- Jon knew there would be a war, and he had no illusions about what his role in it would be. When it was all over he was sure there'd be a price to pay, but he couldn't think about that day in, day out. All that mattered was the mission. He couldn't do it knowing that he would have to face up to himself at the end of every day. He didn't have that strength. He simply couldn't do it

Heart thudding, trying to ignore the rapidly encroaching feeling of nausea, he pressed the door chime and waited for Malcolm to let him in.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

Rage is fear of not being heard  
Crime is fear of being defeated

***

Jon can still hear Malcolm's voice in his head, see the expression on his face so clearly, as though the twelve intervening years have served simply to focus it all ever more sharply. He had seen in his eyes that he wouldn't beg -- his indomitable pride -- even as he told Jon what a mistake he was making.

'We have to find the second weapon,' Jon had replied, 'I can't afford distractions.'

Malcolm hadn't bought it, reaching out to touch Jon's cheek, as he had done innumerable times over the last four months, asking for the truth. He had forced himself not to react, watching in silence as the shock and the reality, finally registering, had played out over Malcolm's face.

Jon had left shortly after that, never having been one for long goodbyes. He's amazed now at his cruelty, at his ignorance, but it's a dull recognition of yet another undesirable facet of himself. He thinks about what it means to still be in love with someone after twelve years of being parted from them.

Despite having been standing by the window for some time, it suddenly strikes Jon that the sun is in the sky. He gathers his things and leaves for his office and his desk.

***

 _August, 2153._

The door chime rang, but Captain Archer didn't move to answer it. He sat in his dimly lit quarters staring out of his window at the starfield beyond, barefoot, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on before the thought of the gym became too much.

The chime sounded again, and again he ignored it. He knew who it was, and what they wanted, and he was in no mood for it.

When the chime rang a third time, and the realization dawned that his visitor wasn't going to just leave, Archer rose in one sudden, fluid motion from the edge of the bed and moved to open the door.

'What do you want, Lieutenant?' He asked Reed, turning back into the darkness of his quarters. But it was Malcolm, not Enterprise's armory chief, who followed him, leaving his rank at the door as they had learned to do for each other a lifetime ago.

'We need to talk,' he said quietly, stopping just inside the door. Looking a little unsure as to where to put himself, he crossed his arms over his chest in that familiar gesture of defense, but in his jeans and t-shirt it looked different -- he just seemed lost.

'If you have a problem with my actions, Mr. Reed, you can file a complaint,' he said coldly.

'Oh you don't need to worry about that, _Sir_ ,' he replied, matching Jon's tone, dropping his arms to his sides. 'I haven't even put it in the log.'

'Then why are you here?'

Malcolm stared at him for a moment and then sighed heavily, glancing up at the ceiling. 'This isn't you, Jon,' he said. Archer turned away angrily and walked back to the porthole, bracing an arm on the wall above his head as he leaned into it. 'Threats? _Torture_? You could have killed a man today!'

'He's fine,' Jon shot back, 'and we have the information we needed.'

'And if he hadn't cracked? How far would you have gone?' Malcolm asked taking a step forward. 'Because you came _this_ close to murder.'

'I don't have to explain myself to you, Malcolm.'

'No. No you don't. But eventually, there'll be someone-'

'I don't want to hear it,' he spat, spinning around to stare hard at Malcolm. The silence stretched between them like something tangible, like a memory or a bad dream, and Jon watched with a distant horror as he saw realization begin to dawn, and then quickly to freeze into fury, in Malcolm's pale eyes.

'Is this why?' he asked softly. When Jon didn't reply, and turned instead back to the stars, Malcolm walked right over and forced him back around, fingers digging into the flesh of his bicep. 'Is this why?' Malcolm repeated, voice rising. Jon tried to shake him off but Malcolm just tightened his grip, both hands on his shoulders now. 'This is your reason? Answer me!'

Jon's vision clouded with images of Orgoth's face, the look of terror as he realized that Jon was in fact serious, and would indeed let him die if he didn't tell him everything he wanted to know. The fact was, Jon wasn't sure how far he would have gone, couldn't be certain that he would have stopped. He didn't know. And that that felt unsatisfactory thrilled the very darkest part of him.

The heat of Malcolm's hands on his bare skin. The sudden, unbearable need to lose himself in something familiar. Using his hold on him, Jon pushed Malcolm roughly, backwards into the bulkhead, ignoring his grunt of pain at the sudden impact. Taking advantage of his surprise, Jon pushed his arms down and, pressing his body hard against Malcolm's, kissed him.

'You son of a bitch,' Malcolm hissed when Jon released his mouth, even as he grabbed his ass, crushing them even tighter together. Jon wound the fingers of one hand into his hair and pulled his head to the side, breathing raggedly into his ear and then lower, biting his way down Malcolm's neck until, reaching the junction where his neck met his shoulder, he sucked hard. Malcolm cried out, rocking his hips against Jon.

He pushed a thigh between Malcolm's legs, thrusting his hardened cock against the other man's hip. As he did so, Malcolm broke free of the hold on his head, and dragged Jon away from his neck, and back up to his face. The intensity in his eyes was nearly overwhelming, but Jon found himself drawn in by the tangled mix of rage and need and pain, crushing his lips against Malcolm's in a bruising kiss. Malcolm moaned as Jon pried his lips apart with his tongue, moving his hands up Jon's bare back, up to his neck and head, and then back down again, to the curve of his ass.

Jon worked a hand between them to get at Malcolm's fly. Pushing his jeans down past his hips he put a hand over the hard ridge in Malcolm's underwear and rubbed him through the fabric, making Malcolm gasp into Jon's open mouth, and reach down with trembling hands for the waistband of Jon's pants.

Malcolm freed them both of their underwear and they thrust into each other's hands, panting, covering each other in wet, open-mouthed kisses. Jon closed his eyes as the exquisite pressure built, his mind empty beyond the rhythm of Malcolm's hand on his penis, pumping roughly, too quickly and relentless. Jon came with a shout, thrusting erratically, sweating. A second later, Malcolm shuddered silently and then stilled, slumping away from Jon against the bulkhead, panting, his eyes closed.

For a while, there was only the sound of their breathing, and then Malcolm whispered, 'Jon, don't lose yourself for this cause.'

Jon surveyed Malcolm for a moment, flushed and beautiful, his eyes still closed as though he couldn't stand what he might see if he looked at Jon. Yes Malcolm, he thought, you're exactly right. This is why.

'Get out,' he said softly, looking away. Malcolm opened his eyes but didn't look at Jon, staring straight ahead, his pupils huge in the half-light. For a moment Jon expected him to protest, gazing at the opposite bulkhead with such hurt, but then he was pulling up his jeans, straightening his t-shirt. And then he was gone. Jon stood in the vacuum left in his wake, staring at the empty space where he had been.

He never apologized. What could he possibly say?

***

The comm. sounds. 'Admiral? There's someone here to see you.'

'Who is it, Lieutenant?' Jon asks his aide.

'A Lieutenant Commander Lloyd, Sir. She said you're expecting her,' says Lieutenant Carver.

'Thank you, send her in.'

A few seconds later the door slides open to reveal a neat young woman in her early thirties, uniform immaculately pressed, shoes shone to perfection and not a hair out of place in her scraped-back plait. Starfleet security, Jon thinks wryly.

'Good morning, Admiral.' She doesn't smile but holds out her hand. 'Commander Mary Lloyd, Starfleet security. It's an honor to meet you. I hope you got my message.'

Standing to greet her, Jon shakes her hand and then gestures to the chair across from him. 'I'm afraid not, Commander, I only just got in. How can I help you?'

Lloyd looks vaguely annoyed in a pinched sort of way, and takes a moment to arrange herself in her seat. 'As is standard practice, an enquiry has been opened into the destruction of the Warhawk class Federation vessel USS Brimstone NX-41. I'm heading up the investigation. I was hoping you'd be able to answer a few questions for me, Admiral Archer.'

Archer nods, 'Of course.'

'Good.' Lloyd lifts a slender black briefcase onto the desk and removes two padds. She types in a few commands to the first one and then places it between them -- a recorder. 'Brimstone enquiry, interview with Fleet Admiral Jonathan Archer, oh-nine-oh-seven, October 21st 2165. Admiral,' she glances at the second padd in her hand and then looks up at him, 'I understand that you used to be Captain Reed's commanding officer.'

'Yes, he served as my armory officer onboard Enterprise for four years.'

'During that time, did you ever have cause to discipline him?'

'Not officially, no.'

'And unofficially?'

Jon frowns sitting forward. 'That's hardly relevant, commander. What's this about?'

She smiles thinly, 'Bear with me, Admiral. What do you know of Mr. Reed's involvement with a man named Aubrey Harris?'

'I've never heard of him.'

'Have you heard of Section 31?'

'No.'

Lloyd fixes him with her sharp gaze, 'Did Mr. Reed ever spend time in the brig under your command?'

'Have you checked the records, Commander?' Archer asks, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

'Yes, Sir.'

'Then you'll know that, no, Mr. Reed did not spend time in the brig under my command.'

'Sir, the official ship's record is in direct conflict with the logs of six junior officers serving on Enterprise at the time.'

'What are you getting at, Commander Lloyd?'

She stares at him for a long moment, seemingly sizing him up. 'I have reason to believe that the destruction of the Brimstone was no accident.' She says it slowly, as though unsure of the words.

Jon stares at her, astounded. 'What?'

Lloyd's mouth twitches but she's silent as she leans forward to pull a third padd from her briefcase. 'The Brimstone's computer core was found amongst the debris,' she says, 'Badly damaged but more or less intact. A lot of the data has been corrupted but my team managed to clean up a portion of the ship's log from the day of the explosion.' Eyes never leaving Archer's, she places it on the desk in front of him and sets it to play.

There's a hiss of static and then a voice, faint and grainy but instantly recognizable -- Malcolm Reed.

'All hands, this is the Captain, may I have your attention please. I have recently come into the possession of classified intelligence regarding Romulan incursion into the Neutral Zone, on which I feel we are obliged to act. Under no orders, and without the knowledge of Starfleet, I have set a course for the Neutral Zone, where we will cross the border in approximately thirty minutes. All crew must report to their department heads for briefing before this time. You may not 'opt out'. I do not take this action lightly, nor without the full support of the senior staff. Any complaints may be made to Commander Mayweather after the completion of this mission. Captain Reed out.'

Archer sits slowly back in his chair, face carefully neutral against his rising anger as he considers his next move.

And then his console beeps. 'Excuse me, Commander,' he says, pressing the button that will answer the call.

'Ah Jon, sorry to bother you,' Admiral Boothroyd smiles apologetically.

'No bother, Duncan,' Jon replies. 'What can I do for you?'

'Actually I'm trying to track down one of my people. Is Commander Lloyd there with you?'

Jon looks over at Lloyd, wondering what the head of Starfleet security wants with her in the middle of her investigation. 'Yes, she's right here.'

'Ah good, can you send her over immediately, please? I have an urgent matter I need to discuss with her.'

'Certainly. Archer out.' Closing the line he turns to Lloyd. 'You'd better get going, Commander.'

Lloyd nods curtly, the pinched expression back on her face. 'I'll be back to finish this later, Admiral.' He stares after her, expressionless.

When she's gone, Archer pushes his chair back with an explosive sigh and walks over to the window. Staring out into the grey morning, he tries to contain his anger as he wonders what could have possibly made Reed renew his involvement in covert ops after giving his word that the association was over, and why he's having to repeat the decade-old lies again, when the man they were intended to protect didn't keep his promise and lost his life in the process. And why the hell he'd put his ship and crew at risk to do it.

***

Jon remembers the last time he'd truly been angry with Malcolm, the last time they'd fought. It hadn't even been about them, not in the way it had been in the Expanse. Except that it was. In some way, it always was.

'Captain, there's nothing more I can add,' he remembers Reed saying.

'I won't accept that,' he'd replied, almost shouting, almost hissing in disgust. 'You've endangered every member of this crew. You answer to _me_.' He'd shaken his head in disbelief as Malcolm looked away, silent. 'I thought I knew you, Malcolm.'

Pacing about Malcolm's quarters, he'd felt an all too familiar pent-up energy, his words coming out in angry bursts. 'I'm your commanding officer. If you don't tell me what's going on, I'll go to Starfleet. Whatever you think you've been trying to keep hidden is going to come out. Is that what you want? _Is that what you want_?'

The Expanse had changed him in ways that he had anticipated, and in ways that he hadn't. The effects had lingered long after their safe return to Earth. He had become quicker to anger and cared less about masking it, his approach less considered, his response to threat faster and more deadly. He put it down to experience.

But Erika had warned him, in not so many words, that night on the mountain, that fresh air and a good fuck wouldn't solve anything for him, that he couldn't reclaim his prior self by recreating a lost feeling from a lost time, however great the need to reach out and touch and be touched in return. At the time, Jon had just been glad it was Erika, and not Malcolm.

Yet there he was -- it was only afterwards, alone in Reed's quarters, that he realized how desperate he had been for Malcolm to appeal to him as someone other than the captain he'd been forced to betray, as something other than a rank. How desperate he had been for Malcolm to call him Jon. And the anger returned. He was sure it served a purpose then.

***

At 1245, Jon crosses the concourse to the academy buildings, as he does every day, to meet Hoshi for lunch. The doors to the lecture theatre are open, the class over, but two cadets have stayed behind to ask their questions. Quietly, Jon slips in and stands in the corner, waiting to catch her attention. On the big screen at the front of the hall he can see some alien language, dissected into points of grammatical interest, recognizing it as Klingon but unable to make out anything familiar.

He's only kept waiting a couple minutes before Hoshi shoos her eager students out and sends them off to lunch.

'Popular as ever, Commander,' Jon says, walking over.

Hoshi smiles, straightening up her notes and packing them away. 'You know, I thought we worked hard to get our positions on Enterprise. These guys? I swear they don't sleep.' She looks up then, and frowns. 'You look tired.'

And suddenly, he really feels it. He imagines he looks very much like she does. He doesn't mention the three or so hours of dream-filled, restless sleep from which he awoke in the early hours of the morning. Instead, he tells her about his run-in with security and the Brimstone enquiry.

'Lieutenant Commander Lloyd?' Hoshi asks sympathetically.

'You too, huh.' She nods and he frowns down at the desk, unconsciously fiddling with a padd, aligning it to the desk's edge. 'She ask you anything... unexpected?'

'Like, about Malcolm's murky past unexpected?' He hears the attempted lightness in her voice, but there's something flat in her tone.

'Yeah, like that.'

Hoshi opens her mouth to reply, then closes it again and nods at the open door. Jon turns to see a handful of cadets walking by. 'Let's go get some lunch and take it back to my office,' Hoshi says, voice pitched low. 'We can talk about it there.'

***

'She asked me several questions about my relationship with Malcolm, the time we served together on Enterprise, that sort of thing. But then she started asking about his conduct -- if he'd ever been reprimanded or in any other kind of trouble. I said no, of course, but...' Hoshi pokes at her food, 'I got the feeling she knew I was hiding something.'

'What else did she say?' Jon asks, his meal similarly untouched.

'The last thing she asked me was about the Brimstone -- she said a lot of the debris was irretrievable because it was too deep into the Neutral Zone. She asked me if I knew why that might be. I told her that I'm not an engineer, but it would make sense if the explosion had been near to the border -- there would be drift,' she explains. Jon nods for her to continue. 'She thanked me, packed up her things and was just leaving when she turned back and told me, she said that the main body of the debris was more than a lightyear into the Neutral Zone. Drift caused by an antimatter explosion is barely a fraction of that in the given time frame, apparently.' Hoshi frowns. 'It's almost like she was warning me, but I have no idea what about.'

Jon watches her play with her lunch, a sense of unease beginning to form deep in his gut.

'You don't think... you don't think Malcolm was involved with Section 31 again, do you?' Hoshi asks after a moment.

Jon tells her what he knows.

***

 _January, 2154._

Captain Archer looked at the small Xindi communications post on the view screen before him. He thought of Earth, of the seven million dead. He thought of each crew member who had died to get them here. He thought of T'Pol and her increasingly erratic behavior. He thought of Elizabeth Tucker, who he'd met once and liked, and of her brother's slow self-destruction. He thought of Reed's quest to beat Hayes into submission, of his fight for control over an increasingly chaotic situation. He thought of Sato, and of her gradual retreat from the ship's life beyond her duties. He thought of Phlox, who so rarely smiled anymore. He thought of Mayweather, who had once idolized him.

Cold fire burned through him. He was so tired of this, but they were so close.

He thought of his deteriorating relationships with each of his senior officers, of each unethical or morally ambiguous decision he'd made in the past months, of how it had felt, to be proud of his achievements. He glanced over at Lieutenant Reed, awaiting his orders at the tactical station, and thought of the way Malcolm used to look at him.

And he knew, in the shadow of that moon, that he couldn't let the post reveal their position. Not when the nightmare was so nearly at an end.

'Fire,' he ordered, and Reed fired, destroying the defenseless facility with a single torpedo. It was the only time he had ever asked Reed to kill in cold blood.

Afterwards, the silence for the lack of protest was deafening. Archer sat back down in his chair and tried to feel some of the remorse clearly showing on the lieutenant's face, but there was nothing. All he felt anymore was the unrelenting rage, the sharp edge of ice and determination. And sometimes... a distant, deepening sorrow for the loss of his soul. He remembered Reed's words, whispering in his mind like a prophecy, _Jon, don't lose yourself for this cause._

And then Reed looked up, met his eyes. 'You did the right thing, Sir.'

Archer wondered if he hadn't already begun the payment for his crimes.

***

Admiral Archer glances at his desk chronometer: 1933. He's been working in his office all afternoon and evening, catching up on his paperwork, waiting for Lloyd to return. He and Sato talked it over for more than an hour, and he's got some questions of his own for the lieutenant commander. But she has yet to reappear.

His thigh has begun aching again from his walk home last night, the throbbing getting worse the longer he sits at his desk. Rising stiffly, Archer tries to stretch the ache out, and crosses his office to get a coffee from the resequencer. The technology has moved on since those early days on Enterprise, and the smell, at least, resembles coffee quite accurately.

Sitting back down, he notices the new message light flashing on his console, and opens it.

 _To: adm.j.archer@fleetcommand.net  
From: adm.d.boothroyd@security.net  
Subj: Brimstone Report_

 _Jon,_

 _Re Mary Lloyd: my apologies for the inconvenience to you this morning. She's always been a bit of a maverick but that was one step too far. I reassigned her and had my aide complete the report. Thought you'd appreciate an advance viewing. We're putting it out on general issue tomorrow morning._

 _Duncan_

Taken aback, Jon frowns deeply as he looks over the message again to make sure he read it correctly. Opening the attached file, he scans through the body of the report until he reaches the conclusion.

 _After an extensive analysis of the Brimstone's debris and interviews with members of the crew (primarily first officer Commander Travis Mayweather and chief engineer Lieutenant Commander Helen Thalakis), it is the conclusion of this investigation that the Brimstone's destruction was brought about by a series of catastrophic system failures, beginning with the degradation of Y-line subroutines in the computer core and ending in a loss of magnetic field cohesion in the antimatter containment systems._

Jon skips ahead again.

 _Captain Malcolm Reed was able to pilot the ship to a safe distance from the crew's escape pods before the antimatter broke containment and annihilated with the surrounding matter, almost certainly preventing the loss of all hands. His actions are to be commended._

Thoughts churning, Archer forwards the file to Sato, and then goes back to the beginning, and reads the whole thing through.

***

'You think it's a cover-up?' Hoshi asks. In the limited view the screen affords, he can see she's at home, in the study adjacent to the playroom. He wonders if Aki's in there and if he's coloring again, or playing with his Warhawk. It occurs to him that it's around dinnertime and he wonders if he interrupted them. 'Jon?' Hoshi's voice is soft with concern at his distraction, her forehead wrinkled delicately.

'You have to admit there's something suspicious going on,' he replies to her first question, attention snapping back, ignoring her second. 'I looked up Lloyd's record -- it's exemplary. Not exactly the type you'd term a 'maverick.' I also looked up her transfer. They sent her to Mars, Hoshi.'

'But... there's nothing there.'

Archer nods, remembering his tour of the tiny facility in the middle of the stretching, rusty wasteland. 'She must have really pissed someone off.'

'Someone important,' Sato agrees, contemplative. 'How well do you know Admiral Boothroyd?'

'I worked closely with him during the Romulan war.' Jon shakes his head. 'He's a good man. If he's involved, it has to be because someone's leaning on him.' Neither of them speculates as to who that might be. Jon suspects they both know already. 'Something else,' he says after a few moments. 'Other than refusing to negotiate with us over the retrieval of the debris, we haven't heard a thing from the Romulans.'

'What does that mean?' Hoshi asks, frowning.

'I don't know, but if the debris is really as deep into the Neutral Zone as Lloyd suggested, it implies Brimstone was a lot closer to the border than she should have been. If that log was real, they may have even crossed it. You'd think the Romulans might have something to say about that,' he says darkly, disliking the direction that that train of thought is taking. He'd accused Malcolm once of working for the enemy and regretted it -- that he was able to suspect it of Malcolm; that Malcolm had given him cause to.

Hoshi sighs softly and lets her head fall into her hands, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. 'You really think he was involved in something.' It isn't a question and Jon doesn't answer it, doesn't trust himself to. 'I just... I can't believe...' She doesn't finish, her voice trembling, and when she looks up again her dark eyes are glittering almost black through a film of tears. Jon's throat tightens in response, aching with the grief and rage and this new betrayal, and a thought flashes through his mind, that maybe, maybe none of this would've have happened if they'd stayed together. No, he thinks forcefully, refusing to do that to himself.

'Hoshi,' he says a little hoarsely, 'I have to go meet T'Pol.'

She nods, unblinking, not allowing the tears to fall. 'I'm starting to think she might know something about all this.'

'Me too. I'll let you know what she has to say.'

He reaches over and presses the button that will end the transmission, and then sits, unmoving. The room hums softly, the sound of the fans that cool the electronics embedded in the walls and floor and ceiling of the building, the sound of his office breathing, mingling with his own breath and the sound of his pulse in his ears, thump, thump, speeding up, his heart thudding in his chest, his breath comes faster and he gets to his feet and he reaches for his cane and begins to walk towards the door, his nostrils flaring with his quickened breathing and the thrum of his pulse, and he throws his cane with all his strength across the room, into the opposite wall.

'Damn that stupid son of a bitch!'


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Lie is fear of facing reality

***

 _March, 2155._

'Let's stop here for a few minutes,' Archer said as the dense forest broke for a stream.

Jon had held a hope, all throughout their time in the Expanse, that once the war was over things could go back to the way they were before. It was a somewhat naive hope, he knew, but he held it nonetheless. His crew, for the most part, seemed relatively happy to go along with the pretence, for as long as it took until it was real again.

They had come across the planet while surveying another in the system for dilithium. Dense with life, Jon had sent down teams to explore and then organized shore leave on rotation over two days, for the entire crew. It had been ten months since they'd left dry dock in Earth-orbit, and many crewmembers hadn't left the ship since then, Malcolm included.

Jon had been surprised when Malcolm had accepted his offer to spend part of their shore leave together hiking through the tropical jungle, but immeasurably pleased. They had been friends... were still friends. But it had seemed, more and more often, that they only talked to be at odds with each other. Jon knew he couldn't fix it overnight, but they had to start somewhere.

Reed shrugged his pack off, propping it against a mossy rock, and took out his near-empty water canister while the captain fiddled with his scanner.

'Nearly there?' Reed asked as he dropped a purification tablet into his canister, filled from the stream, and swilled it around as it fizzed.

'Yep,' Archer replied, removing his own pack and sitting down with his back against a tree trunk. 'Just another half kilometer.' He looked up at the sky, visible for the first time in an hour through the canopy, and followed the rays of afternoon light gliding down through the trees, seemingly alive with the tiny things they illuminated.

Wiping the sweat from his face with his light-weather uniform sleeve, Reed sat down on the rock and took a swig of water. 'I can't believe how bloody hot it is. When you said 'forest', I imagined Great British woodland, not Amazon jungle.'

Jon chuckled. 'I thought your parents lived in Malaysia. Aren't there rain forests there?'

'My parents only moved to Malaysia six years ago, after Madeline finished university. I was brought up under grey English skies,' he explained wryly.

'Huh,' Archer said, surveying Reed. 'So what you're saying is, you can't handle the heat?'

'Not at all, Sir.' Reed rose and re-shouldered his pack, looking at Archer pointedly. Jon smiled and got to his feet, squeezing Malcolm's shoulder companionably before they set off again.

Another half hour passed before they reached their destination, hacking their way through dense foliage. Then the trees just seemed to fall away and they stood on the edge of a large clearing. Archer stood for a moment, catching his breath, then turned to Reed.

'We're here,' he whispered.

Reed frowned, scanning the area. 'I don't see... Oh... wow.' At the sound of his voice, amplified by an echo around the glade, little ruby-winged creatures like butterflies rose out of the brush. They were innumerable, rising and rising out of the forest floor like a crimson breeze, circling around each other and the two men in a towering column encompassing the entire clearing.

Jon watched Malcolm watching the display, eyes wide in wonder. 'How did you...?'

'Ensign Cutler told me.'

Malcolm didn't say any more, and Jon closed his eyes taking in a deep breath, feeling the magic of this place literally flowing around him. When he opened them again, he found Malcolm staring at him, his expression neutral, but... there was something about the set of his mouth, the glint in his eyes. Jon couldn't put a name to it, but it unsettled him, and he looked away again, out into the moving sea of red.

'Come on,' he said soon after. 'It'll be getting dark soon.' It was a quiet trip back.

Five days later, Jon got a transmission from Starfleet headquarters, finally approving his recommended promotions, among them Sato, Mayweather and Reed. He was just reaching over to comm. them all in when he noticed something, and he paused, reading the note by Malcolm's name. He stared at it for a long time, then walked to the ready room's small porthole and watched the stars fly by, deep in thought. Eventually, he stepped out onto the bridge.

'Malcolm,' he said, 'a word.'

Reed followed him in, standing at ease just inside the door. 'Sir?'

'Congratulations, Malcolm. Starfleet has seen fit to promote you to the rank of Lieutenant Commander.'

Reed blinked. 'I don't know what to say.'

'About time?' Archer suggested, and Reed quirked a small smile.

'Thank you, Sir.'

Archer came to stand in front of him. 'Don't thank me yet. The promotion came with a transfer to the Endeavor.'

'Endeavor?' Malcolm said, surprised. 'The third warp-five ship.'

'That's right. I don't know the captain personally, but he has a reputation for his command style. Apparently, it's extremely relaxed.'

Reed looked down at the deck. 'How very perverse,' he said quietly, dryly. 'Sir.' He added.

'You don't have to go, Malcolm. I can overturn the transfer.'

'I wouldn't want to put you out, Captain.' Reed was smiling slightly, but it was humorless, not reaching his eyes.

'This isn't about me,' Archer said carefully. 'It's about what you want.'

Reed looked back up at him then, the same expression on his face that had unnerved Jon in the clearing. He didn't say anything for a long time, just looked at Jon, scanning his face, his eyes, over and over.

'I want to leave,' he said eventually. 'I think it's for the best.'

Even as he wondered how, Jon knew he couldn't change Malcolm's mind. So he didn't even try. It would be a year before they saw each other again, and they would be deep in the midst of another war.

***

 _October 21st, 2165._

'Admiral,' T'Pol inclines her head in greeting, 'It's... good,' she raises an eyebrow at the human expression, 'to see you again.'

'T'Pol.' Placing his hands on her shoulders -- the closest to an embrace she's ever accepted -- Jon smiles, genuinely, deeply happy to see her. 'It's good to see you, too. How was your journey?'

'Uneventful,' she replies, glancing around her. They're standing in the VIP debarkation lounge at the landing pad behind Starfleet headquarters. 'Is there somewhere more private we can go to talk?'

'My apartment is only a couple blocks away.'

'No,' T'Pol says, lowering her voice, 'There is a possibility that your living quarters are being monitored.'

Jon takes a deep breath, and wonders when this reeling sensation will stop. 'I suppose my office is out as well, then,' he says, unable to find it in him to be shocked.

'A walk,' T'Pol tells him. 'Somewhere unpopulated.'

'What about your luggage?'

'I don't have any. I don't intend to stay.'

***

They leave the complex and head off on foot in the direction of the bay, T'Pol's traditional robes fluttering about her in the light breeze of the mild fall evening.

'Leave your furs on Andoria?' Jon comments, remembering the last time he'd seen her, buried under layers of animal skin to meet his transport out on the surface. And that was during the Andorian summer.

'It is agreeable,' she remarks, 'to be on a temperate planet again. It's been several months.' Her emotionless face softens somewhat as she looks up at the night sky. 'I confess, I had hoped to arrive during the day time, but circumstances didn't allow.' Jon nods in sympathy for the woman adapted to the desert, living underground on a frozen rock. He remembers Randor, Andoria's sun, a tiny white light low in the sky, so very far away.

'How's Shran? Seen him recently?'

'General Shran was at the Daloa symposium last month. He systematically disagreed with each of my proposals,' she says dryly, 'but he seemed in good health.'

Archer shakes his head, 'Same old Shran.'

Jon can't stop glancing at her, burning to know what she had to travel two days to tell him in person. But she's made it clear she won't talk until she's satisfied they're completely alone. They walk on in silence for what seems to Jon like a long time. His thigh is throbbing and he leans more heavily on his cane, beginning to sweat.

'Admiral?' T'Pol asks, 'Are you alright?'

'My leg,' he says through gritted teeth as a spasm clenches what remains of his muscles like a fist.

'Of course, I'm sorry,' a slight frown crosses her face. 'Let's sit down.' They're in the middle of a grassy playing field, deserted at this time of night, and the only place to sit is on the ground. But at least they can see they're alone. Slipping an arm through his, T'Pol leads him a few meters to a slight rise, helping to take his weight with that deceptive strength of hers. She helps him to the ground and then gathers up her robes and sits down next to him. 'I'm sorry, Jonathan,' she says again. 'I had forgotten.'

'It's okay,' he grates out, waiting for the spasm to subside. 'I just need a moment.' She hadn't been there, when it had happened -- she was still on Enterprise. He shouldn't have been there himself, if he'd listened to Duncan. And Lieutenant Commander Reed, of course.

Letting out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, Jon slowly unclenches his wrecked muscles and stretches his leg out in front of him. Tenderly massaging around the scar tissue, he glances over at T'Pol.

'So... want to tell me what this is all about?'

She bows her head momentarily, a graceful arc of the neck, and when she looks back up there's something almost like pain, almost like guilt, shining in her brown eyes. 'It is imperative that you deny all knowledge of Captain Reed's history with Mr. Harris and Section 31.'

'Deny it to whom, exactly?'

'Anyone who should ask.'

Jon lets out a small, mirthless laugh. 'You do realize that the enquiry report has already been finished.'

Her eyes widen slightly. 'So quickly? Did anyone come to speak with you?'

'Yes. And yes, they did ask about Malcolm's history. Don't worry,' he adds, seeing her concern, 'I kept to the same old story.' Her relief is almost palpable. 'Be so kind as to tell me, Ambassador,' he says, more heatedly that he'd intended, 'exactly why I jeopardized my position and the trust of my colleagues by lying to an official enquiry, to cover the tracks of a dead man.'

'Because if you hadn't,' she replies, features calm as ever but a tremor in her voice, 'more lives would have been lost.'

***

 _March, 2156._

'Welcome aboard, Admiral,' said Captain Gravelle, slurring the words with his Creole accent. Archer stepped down from the Endeavor's transporter pad and shook his outstretched hand.

'A pleasure to meet you, Captain.'

'Likewise.' Gravelle smiled broadly and gestured to the two men at his side. 'My first officer, Commander Stephen Clare, and I hear you've met my tactical officer before.'

Clare nodded politely and they shook hands, then Archer moved to stand in front of the second man and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'It's good to see you again, Malcolm.'

Reed focused somewhere over Archer's right shoulder, standing stiffly to attention. 'Sir,' he replied in way of greeting.

'Now now, Commander Reed, be nice,' Gravelle admonished lazily. Unused to the new title, Archer's eyes flicked down to Reed's rank pips -- three small rectangles above the red piping on the shoulder of his uniform: two silver, one black. 'He doesn't like you being on board,' Gravelle confided as they filed out of the transporter room. 'Makes him twitchy.' Jon couldn't help smiling at that and looked back over his shoulder at Malcolm.

'I simply feel, Sir, that taking the second fleet admiral into the middle of a major battle is not just deeply foolhardy, but an unnecessary risk to his safety,' Reed said to Gravelle, then turned to Archer. 'You could co-ordinate just as easily from the base on Tessic-prime.'

Jon repressed a sigh, having already had this argument with Duncan Boothroyd back on Earth. 'You know it isn't the same, Commander. I don't have to remind you how important this confrontation is. I need to be here.'

'Respectfully, Admiral, I disagree.'

Clare coughed uncomfortably and Gravelle frowned back at Reed. 'Ça suffit,' he warned. 'Behave yourself, Lieutenant Commander.'

'Aye, Sir,' Reed replied after a moment, but his eyes were on Archer.

Just over two hours later, Endeavor rendezvoused with the sizeable, multi-species fleet Archer had rallied specifically for this mission -- the destruction of the Romulans' primary weapons plant.

Just under two hours after that, Endeavor hit a cloaked mine in orbit around the planet, causing a chain reaction in the EPS grid. There was a massive explosion at the back of the bridge where Archer, Gravelle and Reed stood hunched over the tactical display.

The last things Archer remembered were two shouts, one English-accented, the other Creole, and someone throwing him to the ground. It saved his life.

***

'It isn't what you think,' T'Pol says. 'Three years ago, I was approached by Admiral Boothroyd, Ambassador Gra'an and several other prominent Federation members, to join an intelligence network. I was to oversee the flow of information in the surrounding sectors of space to Andoria, and help co-ordinate the efforts of our operatives. Four days ago, I received some very disturbing information regarding an incursion into the Neutral Zone by the Romulans. I believed they were trying to develop a new weapon using a local phenomenon, which, if successful, would have severely threatened the balance of power. Brimstone was the nearest ship to the facility, so I contacted my operative on board, in the hopes he could take care of it quietly.'

'Malcolm,' Jon sighs, rubbing frustratedly at his forehead.

'No,' T'Pol replies. 'Commander Mayweather.'

'What? Travis...'

'Has been working for me since I first took on the responsibility.'

'Malcolm wasn't involved?'

'No.'

Jon lets out an unsteady breath, surprised by the wave of relief flowing through him. 'Where does Section 31 come into it?'

'The organization Commander Mayweather and I work for is a legitimate branch of Federation intelligence, even though it isn't widely known in Starfleet. Section 31 is not. When I became involved, one of the first things I attempted was to expose Aubrey Harris and his associates. Unfortunately, the Section came into possession of a partial list of our operatives. If we ever try to shut them down, they will simply sell it to the highest bidder. It's a delicate situation and I was concerned that if you had revealed Mr. Reed's past involvement... There are nearly two hundred names on that list, admiral,' she looks at him, eyes heavy with the burden.

'It isn't your fault, T'Pol,' he says softly, touching her arm.

'Perhaps not, but it is my responsibility. As is the death of Malcolm Reed.'

***

Jon awoke to the activity of the Endeavor's overcrowded sickbay, disorientated and groggy. He tried to sit up but none of his limbs seemed to work properly. The movement made his head hurt -- bright colors obscured his vision, nausea rolling through his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut again, but it didn't help. Strong hands turned him onto his side and someone held a container to his mouth as he vomited. Then he was laid back down, his mouth gently wiped and water pressed to his lips.

Blinking a few times, his vision cleared a little and a familiar face came into focus.

'Malcolm? What happened?' he murmured thickly, his throat raw and dry, and it was then that he noticed the glint of light on Reed's right shoulder -- three rectangular silver pips.

'An EPS conduit exploded,' he said. 'Captain Gravelle is dead.' He reached over and pressed a button on the monitor above Jon's head, alerting the doctor that he was awake, then looked back down, right into Jon's eyes. 'You shouldn't have come, Admiral,' he said, and Archer wanted to recoil from the weary bitterness in his eyes.

And then he left, to take up his new duties as first officer. It was only after Malcolm was gone that Jon realized he couldn't feel his left leg.

***

'There is a region of space in the Neutral Zone, close to the Garratan system, where the fabric of space-time can spontaneously dissolve into something known in astrophysics as a 'microrift'. In simplistic terms, these rifts are microscopic singularities that emit a tremendous amount of high frequency radiation, hence they are extremely dangerous to most humanoid species. During the war, the Romulans experimented with recreating them artificially, for use as a weapon, but with the establishment of the Neutral Zone they were forced to withdraw from that sector. When I learned that the Romulans had secretly annexed Garratan-three, I became concerned that they had resumed their research. As I said, such a weapon would destabilize the stalemate between our two sides. It could have lead to another war.

'I sent the information, with my conclusions, to Commander Mayweather in the hopes that something could be done without involving Starfleet. He contacted me the next day with his plan -- to steal a shuttlepod, fly to Garratan-three and destroy the facility himself. Despite Mr. Mayweather's confidence that he could return safely, it was an incredibly dangerous mission and one which, should he have survived, would almost certainly have led to his dismissal from Starfleet. But there seemed no alternative.

'Unfortunately, Captain Reed captured and decoded our communication. Mr. Mayweather had no choice but to reveal everything to him. Together, they put it to the rest of the senior staff, and between them decided on a course of action -- to take Brimstone herself across the border.

'They reached Garratan without incident and managed to destroy the base and an orbiting warship, but another ship escaped and as it did so, it deployed a device that expanded a nearby microrift. Brimstone was damaged, her impulse drive offline, and the intense radiation being emitted by the expanded rift not only began to threaten the crew's health, but also interfered with the warp field. It induced a negative feedback loop in the field generator, preventing warp drive engagement -- they were trapped.

'The science officer and chief engineer managed eventually to discern that a massive antimatter explosion, a warp core breach, would close the rift. In the time that they had before the build up of radiation became fatal, the crew set the necessary conditions and evacuated. However, someone had to remain on board to initialize a controlled core overload. Commander Mayweather protested strongly, but in the end it was the captain's decision.

'It is Mr. Mayweather's belief that Captain Reed was overcome with radiation poisoning before he could make it to the transporter room. He was still onboard when the ship exploded.'

***

Archer doesn't speak for some time. As a boy, he had often wondered at the phrase 'to have your world turned upside down.' He would picture himself from China's perspective -- on the bottom of the globe -- and tried to imagine himself falling clean off into space until it made him dizzy. He thinks of this now, unconsciously reaching out to touch the grass, and marvels at how inadequate a sensation he had imagined. He can't voice what he's feeling at this moment, so instead, after a couple of minutes, he asks, 'The ship that got away -- did it make it back to Romulan space?'

'I can only assume that it did,' T'Pol replies. He hears the sound of her robes rustling as she changes her position. 'One of the reasons I sent the information directly to Commander Mayweather, instead of going through formal channels, was that, should the Romulans trace the destruction of their facility back to Starfleet, their response was likely to be a resumption of hostilities. Given that they almost certainly know the Brimstone was the cause of their loss, the fact that they have yet to respond in any way makes me very uncomfortable.'

Grasping his cane, Jon struggles to his feet. T'Pol rises smoothly and offers him her hand.

'Thank you,' Jon says, 'for telling me.'

'You deserved to know,' she says in return, and something in her eyes tells Jon that she knew about Malcolm and him.

They make their way back down the shallow incline, T'Pol wordlessly supporting him again, and head back to the lights and life of the city.

At the edge of the playing field, Jon stops, and says, 'You aren't responsible for Malcolm's death, T'Pol.' She simply nods, appreciating his words even if she doesn't agree.

***

Admiral Archer can't sleep again. He finds it hard to believe that it was just last night that he received Reed's letter, and the day before that he learned of his death. His mind reels with the things he's heard today: Commander Lloyd's subtle accusations, T'Pol's revelations. He feels like he's barely had time to just stop, and absorb what he's been told.

But now, his work and responsibilities on pause while he's supposed to be sleeping, there is time to think and remember, and things come back to him; his guilt, his loss. The words of Malcolm's letter burned into his brain.

 _I wish that I could have told you this myself._

Jon remembers a thousand touches and looks and laughs, sitting around a campfire watching Malcolm's face as he talked with Trip; his slow, seductive smile one night over a memorable dinner; lying in bed simply looking at each other, words unnecessary. And yet, how they were.

 _I love you, Jonathan, I always have._

Again the thought comes to him, that maybe this could have been prevented had they stayed together. He tries to envisage his life, the last twelve years, with Malcolm at his side, as Malcolm's lover. He tries to see how things might have been different. But he can't possibly begin to imagine, because they weren't. He'll never know.

And the sick feeling, the anger and the heartache confused into a hard lump in the pit of his stomach, as he tries to reconcile everything he knows to be true with the fact that Malcolm is dead. But he can't figure it out. He can't see the link.

 _The destruction of the Brimstone was no accident._

You fool, he thinks vehemently, but he isn't sure to whom it's directed. It would be so much easier, to blame T'Pol or Travis, but in the end it just comes back to him -- _his_ choices, _his_ self-deception.

He rolls over onto his back and closes his eyes, letting alternating waves of rage and sorrow, guilt and regret wash over him, until they drown out his senses.

Jon remembers this excruciating numbness that comes at the darkest time of the day, from the friends who have gone before, from his father and Trip. But they were different, their ends coming as a relief to incurable pain. There was nothing he could have done to change either of their fates.

He thinks of Trip now, of his slow descent into painful oblivion, and he misses him, his steady companionship, with a soul-deep ache. His greatest fear, over the years, has been to end up as the last one standing. Since his childhood, people he has cared about have died and he's said goodbye, or not, and continued to live. The list only gets shorter, he thinks, and his mind turns to Hoshi and Dan, and Aki.

Getting up, he goes into the next room and sits at his console, considering its blank face for a moment, and then typing in a command. He a waits a few seconds for the connection to be accepted, and then Hoshi's tired face appears on the screen.

'Hoshi, I...' he trails off, suddenly unsure of what to say.

'It's ok, Jonathan. I wasn't asleep.'

***

By the time Hoshi arrives at his door, Jon's world has just shifted for the second time in as many days. Before she can say anything about his ashen face or the way his body trembles, he takes her by the hand and pulls her into the den. There the console is on, showing a handsome man in his late thirties.

'Travis!' Sato exclaims.

'Hoshi,' he says guardedly, eyes going to Jon.

'Go on, Commander,' Jon says, 'tell Hoshi what you just told me.'

Mayweather looks between the two of them, the whites of his eyes luminous against his mahogany skin. He says, 'Malcolm might still be alive.'


End file.
